Guran and Carensa exchanged a look. “That’s on the border of Karstan Lysander’s lands,” Guran warned. “What could possibly be worth the risk?”
“You’ll see,” Quintrel answered, spurring his horse onward. Carensa sought counsel in Guran’s expression, but he merely shrugged, looking as uncomfortable and perplexed as she felt. With a heavy heart, she snapped the reins, her worries as dark as the snow clouds on the horizon.
The village of Kells Mill was a three-candlemark ride from Torsford. Carensa was glad for her heavy cloak, hat, and scarf. She huddled down into her cloak against the wind, but kept a wary eye on the roadway and the hedgerow. Brigands now ruled Donderath’s highways, once safeguarded by King Merrill’s soldiers. Rostivan’s team of ten soldiers seemed paltry to Carensa, who had heard tell of bandit gangs of two or three times that many men, preying on anyone foolish enough to journey the shattered kingdom’s ruined roadways.
Once, Kells Mill was a prosperous town with a large grist mill that drew farmers and merchants from miles around. Carensa looked at the deserted fields and abandoned farms along their route, feeling a familiar pang of sadness. Some of the barns and homes had burned in the Great Fire; others might have been destroyed in the Cataclysm. But for many, Carensa guessed that their desperate owners just walked away to seek their fortune somewhere, anywhere, else.
“Why Kells Mill?” Guran probed. Quintrel had been maddeningly silent for the entire ride. Carensa and Guran had chatted quietly with each other, but neither felt free to speculate on the question that was uppermost in their minds.
“Because it’s neutral ground,” Quintrel replied. He refused to say anything more until the village’s bell tower came into view. The longer they rode, the more worried Guran looked. Given his abilities, that gave Carensa deep cause for concern.
Before the Cataclysm, the Kells Mill bells would have rung out the candlemarks for farmers and villagers alike. Now the tower was a ruined, blackened hulk, scorched and broken where the Great Fire had touched it. The bell tower sat in the center of the village, which was surrounded by a high stockade fence patrolled by guards.
“I’m not sure about how neutral this ground is,” Guran murmured as they rode through the village gates.
Carensa had to agree as she looked from side to side. Few people walked along the village streets, and those she saw were soldiers. The suspicion she had tried to dismiss since they left Torsford loomed large, and she could no longer ignore it.
“Does your gift tell you anything?” Carensa asked Guran quietly.
“You won’t like it.”
“We’re going to meet with Lysander, aren’t we?” she said.
Guran nodded. “Almost certainly.”
Quintrel rode down the main street of the village with Carensa and Guran behind him, flanked by guards who also took up the rear of the procession. They approached the largest building still standing in the village, a home that Carensa guessed must once have belonged to the richest man in town. The home looked hard used, damaged by the Great Fire and repaired by workers less skilled than those who built it. Now it appeared to have been pressed into service as a headquarters for the most dangerous warlord in Donderath.
Four uniformed soldiers blocked their path. “State your purpose,” the ranking soldier demanded.
Quintrel waved his hand in dismissal. “We are here by arrangement with Lord Lysander. Step aside and let us pass.”
The soldier leveled an appraising glance at the team of guards that accompanied Quintrel. “They stay out here,” he said. “You three, dismount and approach.”
Not exactly a warm welcome, Carensa thought.
“Lord Lysander has placed a condition upon his agreement to meet with you,” the soldier said, and as they walked closer, Carensa could see insignia indicating that the man was a captain.
“I agreed to no conditions,” Quintrel bristled.
The captain shrugged. “Perhaps not, but the condition remains.”
“What is it?” Quintrel demanded.
The captain held out three agate disks with hollow centers, strung on three separate leather lanyards. Even at a distance, the disks gave off a strange magical aura that Carensa found uncomfortable.
“These are null amulets. They dampen magic,” the captain said. “You will wear them if you wish to meet with Lord Lysander.”
Carensa expected a challenge from Quintrel, but instead, the mage-scholar gave a tolerant smile. “Of course,” he said as if the request was customary. He allowed the captain to place the amulet’s strap over his head, and gestured for Carensa and Guran to do the same. Carensa noticed that the divi orb no longer glowed, nor was it visible at the neck of Quintrel’s tunic.
Carensa felt a physical jolt as the amulet touched her skin. She was one of the least powerful of Quintrel’s mages, and her magic—translating languages—seemed insignificant compared to the grander power of the others. Carensa had the uncomfortable feeling of being partially blind, constrained as if someone had rolled her up in a heavy blanket that blocked motion, sight, and sound. Just like when the magic had died. She could not guess what it felt like for Quintrel or Guran, but from Guran’s expression, she suspected he was also decidedly uncomfortable. Quintrel did not seem to be affected, and his mood was buoyant.
The captain escorted them through the old home’s scarred front hallway and into a room that might once have been the office of the well-to-do merchant or gentleman farmer who owned the house. The ravages of storms, fire, and errant magic had taken a toll on the house and its furnishings, dimming its former grandeur.
“So you’re the mage I’ve heard about.” Karstan Lysander sat behind a large, solid wooden desk. He did not rise to greet them, and there were no chairs to welcome visitors. A fire burned in the fireplace, barely taking the chill from the room. Lysander spoke with a heavy accent, one Carensa searched her memory to place.
Carensa studied Lysander, trying to match the reality to the legend. Karstan Lysander was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His dark eyes were cold and it almost seemed possible to see the calculations going on behind them. No one would consider him handsome. His face was fleshy, like the wild hogs that roamed the countryside. In the close confines of the warm room, an unpleasant odor hung about Lysander that made Carensa want to wrinkle her nose. Yet from his heavy boots to his sturdy weapons to the scars that marked his hands and face, no one could doubt Lysander was a warrior.
Standing behind him was another man, in mage robes, who looked vaguely familiar to Carensa. Nothing in the mage’s face betrayed any recognition, and Carensa struggled to keep her own features impassive as she put the face with a name. Dro Hastins, her memory supplied. At least, that’s what he called himself back in Castle Reach, before the Great Fire. He was one of Quintrel’s hangers-on.
“My lord,” Quintrel said with a bow. “We are honored.”
Lysander looked at him with curiosity. “You requested a meeting. I’m here. What do you want?”
Carensa glanced at Quintrel in alarm. Vigus Quintrel’s opinion of himself was as grand as his magic, and she had never known him to permit anyone to speak so dismissively to him. Yet to her amazement, Quintrel did not look perturbed in the least.
“To be blunt, we wish to further our alliance.”
Carensa stifled a gasp. Guran looked alarmed. But Quintrel continued as if the request was nothing out of the ordinary. Lysander regarded Quintrel with heavy-lidded eyes, unreadable.
“You’re already aligned with Rostivan, and he’s helping rid me of some unwanted pests. What need do I have for mages?” Lysander challenged. Carensa finally recognized Lysander’s thick accent: It was common in the region nearest the Meroven border. Before the war, many of the mountain villages had kept to themselves for so long that they spoke an unusual dialect not found anywhere else in Donderath. It was rumored Lysander had drawn on Meroven mercenaries to swell the ranks of his army, in addition to the Tingur. Carensa chafed at the effect of the magi
c-dampening amulets, since it hindered her ability to easily understand the whispered conversation between Lysander’s captain and a guard at the door.
“I suggest a grander alliance, and I am empowered by General Rostivan to extend an offer of truce and to negotiate further, on his behalf,” Quintrel continued smoothly.
“I would be more likely to accept your surrender than your truce,” Lysander growled. “What do I need from you that I can’t do on my own or that Rostivan hasn’t already promised?”
“Real magic,” Quintrel replied. “The kind of magic that turns the tide of battles.” Quintrel was at his charming best, and Carensa thought she caught a hint of a glow from the divi orb. The light lasted for a fraction of a second, but it left Carensa wondering whether the divi was constrained at all by Lysander’s amulets.
“I had my fill of magic in the Meroven War,” Lysander replied.
“Perhaps,” Quintrel said agreeably. “But what will you do when you go up against Tormod Solveig? Animating the battlefield dead is child’s play to a necromancer of his power. What happens when he decides to wrest the living soul from your soldiers?” Quintrel asked.
“McFadden’s assembled his own mages, and he’s allied with the Knights of Esthrane,” Quintrel continued. My mages know those Knights, studied their magic. How will you stand against such powerful talishte mages without mages of your own?”
Lysander glowered at him, but did not end the conversation. “What do you propose?”
“Protection spells for you and your soldiers,” Quintrel said. “Magic to turn back the undead. Wardings talishte cannot cross. A translator to make it easier for you to communicate with your Meroven mercenaries. A far-seer, who can look beyond the scope of mortal vision. And a priceless gift for you to make you impossible to kill—if you will accept it.”
Interest and skepticism flickered in Lysander’s black eyes. “Interesting. Tell me about this ‘gift.’ ”
Quintrel smiled and leaned forward, warming to the tale. “Such a gift was given by the first Knights of Esthrane to King Hougen many years ago, and the king did not die until he removed the charm,” Quintrel said.
“You’ve heard the tales, no doubt, about Randuvil the Destroyer?” Quintrel added. Carensa recognized the name as belonging to the most storied warlord in Donderath’s history, an invincible fighter who conquered nearly the entire Continent. “This amulet was created from manuscripts we found in Valshoa made by the maker of Randuvil’s talisman. Those manuscripts have been hidden away for hundreds of years, which is why no one in all these centuries had such a charm.”
He shrugged. “I brought it to give to you, but it can’t work in the presence of these amulets,” he said, as if that settled the matter. “It must be attuned to you, something that can only be done in your presence.” He paused. “It’s of no consequence. I can take it back with me.”
Carensa could almost hear Lysander’s internal struggle. Greed glinted in his eyes, and she knew Quintrel had been cagey enough to determine what Lysander would find irresistible. After a moment, Lysander nodded.
“You may remove your amulets,” Lysander said, and Carensa guessed that caution had lost out to avarice. Once again, Carensa thought she saw the barest glimmer of the divi orb, but it was gone as soon as she blinked.
Carensa felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest as she removed the amulet and set it aside. Guran also wasted no time removing the talisman, nor did Quintrel. Lysander’s guards felt compelled to move a step closer from their stations along the walls, but the warlord motioned for them to stand down.
“Show me,” Lysander rumbled.
Quintrel reached inside his coat and withdrew a velvet pouch with elaborate, arcane embroidery in golden thread. “Quite literally, a gift worthy of a king,” Quintrel said, holding it aloft.
“Just think: the power of Randuvil the Destroyer, for you,” he said, staring at the pouch in awe.
I’ll give him credit: Quintrel’s a showman, Carensa thought. Quintrel was reeling in Lysander like an expert fisherman, and from the naked desire in the warlord’s eyes, the bait was working.
“Mage! Your assistance is required.” Lysander’s voice brought Hastins to the forefront. “Test this item with your magic. Tell me what you find.”
Carensa held her breath. If Hastins had parted faith with Quintrel, there was no way a mage of any power could help but sense the divi’s presence. Hastins’s betrayal would mean certain death for her and for Quintrel.
Hastins looked bored, even slightly contemptuous, as he reached out to take the pouch from Quintrel. He weighed the velvet pouch in his hand, passing his other palm above it, then closed his eyes, as if focusing his magic. After a moment of silence, Hastins looked to Lysander.
“He speaks the truth,” Hastins said. “The amulet is as he has told you. I sense no ill intent.” Hastins handed the pouch back to Quintrel as if it were of little interest.
“Give it to me.” Lysander’s voice was husky with hunger.
“As you wish,” Quintrel said, making a shallow bow. Somehow he managed to keep his glee from showing in his face. Lysander was falling for it, just as Quintrel knew he would. And Hastins was in on it, Carensa realized, Quintrel’s man on the inside.
Of course, she thought. Hastins was Quintrel’s infiltrator. He’s working with Quintrel to make Lysander trust the orb, and he lied about the amulet being safe because Quintrel told him to lie. That’s also how Quintrel could make a divi orb tied to Lysander—Hastins supplied him with something of Lysander’s in order to bind him.
Quintrel withdrew a small crystal orb much like his own divi sphere. This orb was much smaller, its surface etched with sigils and runes. Carensa could read the magical language. The markings would bend the sphere’s wearer to Quintrel’s will. Instead of a leather strap, the new orb was on a length of braided silken cord.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Quintrel said with a sigh, as if he were looking on the face of a lover. Lysander’s gaze fixed on the orb, which as of yet showed none of the divi’s spark.
“My lord Lysander,” Quintrel said, presenting the orb and its pouch with a flourish.
“Just imagine, m’lord,” Quintrel continued. “You will become Randuvil’s heir. Generations will celebrate your victories. Your name will be legend.”
Lysander lifted the small orb and peered at it. “I see nothing extraordinary,” he said, giving Quintrel a piercing look.
“That’s because it must be activated to your personal energies,” Quintrel replied with a smile. “It will attune itself once you wear it.”
For a moment, Lysander looked conflicted, as if some inner warning fought with his desire for immortality. Greed won, and Lysander slipped the silken cord around his neck. The small orb lay on his breastbone, and after a few breaths, a yellow light flickered from its depths. At the same instant, Carensa saw an answering glimmer from the divi orb beneath Quintrel’s tunic.
“The orb is your protector,” Quintrel advised. “Never remove it. It will not only extend your life and give you luck, it will guide your decisions and visit your dreams with secrets that will allow you to rule over other men.”
And it will worm its way into your brain and your soul, putting you entirely under the control of Vigus Quintrel, Carensa thought. From the unabashed avarice in Lysander’s eyes, she concluded he was a man who had made more than one Raka’s bargain in his life.
“A royal gift indeed,” Lysander replied as one hand absently stroked the orb. The divi had begun its work. He looked to Quintrel, and the hardened glint came back to his black eyes. “What boon do you ask in exchange?”
Always ask the cost first, Carensa thought, though she did not think Lysander worth her pity. Never trust a mage’s gifts.
“A place at the table, m’lord,” Quintrel said, playing to Lysander’s self-importance. Carensa marveled that Quintrel could set aside his own grand opinion of himself long enough to be someone else’s lickspittle, but she guessed the m
age had decided the outcome was worth the temporary abasement.
“When you come into your power, dominating the other warlords, I ask that you name mages to your council. We would advise and protect you, and in return, be protected by your power,” Quintrel asked with such a convincing show of humility that Carensa thought she might retch.
“And what of Rostivan?” Lysander asked, a canny look coming into his black eyes.
“Surely you will need clever proxies to wield your power and subdue dissent,” Quintrel replied. “Lord Rostivan and I discussed such matters before my party set out. He acknowledges your primacy, and wishes to serve in the role to which he is best suited: as a military man enforcing order.”
“And Rostivan would accept that?” Lysander said shrewdly. “He fights hard for a man who doesn’t want to be king himself.”
Quintrel did not hesitate. “There are many ways to wield power,” he answered. “Rostivan is a man born to do battle. He has no love for administration, for council meetings and court ceremonies. Honor him as your foremost general, and he will have the power and prestige he desires.”
Clever, Carensa thought. Quintrel sets Lysander up as the would-be king without saying so, and positions Rostivan as his right-hand military commander and himself as the king’s left hand. As much as Carensa had grown to dislike Quintrel, she could not deny his brilliance.
“And if I decide to accept your gift, and deny your request?” Lysander asked, growing suspicious too late in the process.
Quintrel gave his most unassuming smile. “You’re not the kind of man who makes a misstep like that,” he said mildly. “Together, we are invincible. You’ve gained your power by choosing your allies wisely. This alliance will make you the supreme power in Donderath—a kingdom to shape to your liking,” he added. “I assure you, m’lord, you will gain the victory you so richly deserve,” Quintrel said confidently.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 33
